


baby, it's cold outside

by erebones



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 16:50:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17165663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: “What about you? Who’d you draw for Secret Santa?”Fjord prods at one of his tusks with his tongue. “Uhm…”“Oh shit, it’s not me, is it? Sorry dude, I shouldn’t’ve asked—”“No, it’s not you, don’t worry.” He reaches forward and pats her hand, and sort of ends up holding it in the middle of the table. Normally he’d be on edge being so touchy-feely in public—people have a tendency toassumethings just because a boy and a girl are holding hands—but he’s too tired and worn out to care. Sensing this, Beau grips back and gives him an encouraging smile. “I, um. I got Caleb.”





	baby, it's cold outside

**Author's Note:**

  * For [losebetter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/losebetter/gifts).



> HFFFFFF SNUCK IT IN AT THE LAST SECOND this is for my dearest darlingest grey, i love you very much MERRY CRISIS <3

The bell over the door jingles shrilly in Fjord’s ear as he ducks into the coffee shop, moving quickly to avoid the plastic mistletoe hanging askew over the lintel. He ignores the server entirely and makes a beeline for the table in the back. It’s stuffy in here, packed with people grabbing a caffeine boost to fuel the last desperate moments of holiday shopping. It’s doing about as much good as rearranging deck chairs on the _Titanic_ as far as Fjord is concerned. It’s already the day before Christmas Eve. The only thing left to do now is find a lifeboat and hope for the best.

His own personal lifeboat is sitting wedged in a booth at the back of the cafe, elbows planted firmly on the table and piercing eyes glaring out at the world as if staking her claim. She catches sight of Fjord and waves him over with a gruff gesture.

“Finally,” Beau says as he sits down with an almighty _creak_ of the plastic seat beneath him. She pushes a black cup of coffee his way with a little too much fervor, and droplets slop over the ceramic rim to blotch the table. “With two pumps of cinnamon like you asked, Mr. Holiday Cheer.”

“Thanks.” Fjord wrests free of his winter coat, scarf, and hat, scrubbing his curls into submission, and wraps his hands around the mug. Takes a deep, coffee-scented breath and lets it out slow. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“Don’t thank me yet.”

“Oh god. Why not?”

“There’s been a change of plans.” Beau brandishes a paper flyer in front of his face. “Jester had an idea.”

The blood drains from Fjord’s face. “What kind of idea are we talking about? Like the ‘I’m going to spike the punch with thousand dollar cognac instead of well whiskey’ kind? Or the ‘I’ve found out how to bring about the end times and you’re going to help me’ kind?”

Beau taps her short, neat-trimmed nails against the formica like she’s actually giving his bullshit scale some consideration. “Leaning toward _harbinger of doom_ but not, like, in a bad way?”

Fjord buries his face in his hands. “Just tell me if I have to be worried or not.”

“Just read the damn flyer yourself.” She smacks it down onto the table and turns it to face in his direction.

He’d recognize the terrible clip-art _graphic design is my passion_ style advert anywhere. He can practically see Jester in his mind’s eye, bent over her keyboard and cackling like a withered hag while Nott stands behind her and points out all the most terrible stock photos. **HOLIDAY ICE RINK NIGHT!!!!!** it reads at the top, in alternating red and green letters framed by fairy lights. There are clip-art pictures of cookies and milk, and christmas trees, and figure skates, and sprinkled here and there are hand-drawn doodles that the photocopier had bleached until they were hardly recognizable. Fjord squints and holds the paper close to his face.

“I think it’s meant to be us,” Beau puts in. “See, Nott is riding on Caleb’s head, and that’s Frumpkin…”

“Why is Frumpkin on _my_ shoulders?”

“I dunno, but she gave you a tissue box or something, so. That’s… sweet of her?”

Fjord gives her a look. “You’re so far gone it’s not even funny.”

“ _You’re_ one to talk. I saw your face just now when you realized she didn’t draw you and Caleb sucking fa—”

“ _Ahem._ Anyway.” Fjord slides the pamphlet back across the table. “Ice rink. Doesn’t sound too bad.”

Beau just stares at him.

“ _What_? Honestly, what’s the issue? I assume she rented the whole place out, yeah, so we’ll have it to ourselves and… oh. _Oh_.”

“ _Now_ you see.” Beau folds her arms defiantly across her chest. “I don’t know about you, but skating is like. The only sport I’m shit at. Jes and Cad and fuckin’ _Nott_ are gonna be gliding across the ice like fuckin’ dancers and I’ll just be toddling around the edge like an _idiot_.”

“Okay first of all, we’ve talked about this.” Fjord holds up a finger. “It ain’t a bad thing to look like a fool sometimes, Beau. Even in front of Jes. We’ve all known each other for _ages_ , I don’t think there’s a single thing left in the list of possible stupid things to do that you haven’t done in front of her and all of us.” Another finger. “Two, good news, I’m not the best skater either. You’re not gonna be the only one falling on their ass all night.”

Beau grumbles unintelligibly into her scarf. It’s the noise she makes when she knows he’s right and doesn’t want to admit it. Progress.

“Third—”

“There’s a _third_ point?”

“There is now!” He reaches across the table and tugs fondly on the plug stretching her left ear. “Third, it's Christmas! Who cares if we fall on our asses a few times? We'll be there together, like a family, and that's what's important.”

Beau gives an aggrieved, drawn-out sigh. “God, why do you have to be so…”

“Full of shit?”

“I was gonna say _right_ , but if you're just going to be an ass about it…”

“All right all right, point taken.” He slurps from his mug and tries to ignore the uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. There's no point in admitting he's nervous—he has to put on a brave face for Beau. Maybe if he ignores it, it'll go away. _Fat chance._

“Did you figure out what you're getting Jester?” he asks in an effort to mask the low tremor of anxiety humming under his skin.

“Erm…” Beau ducks her head toward her mug. “Not yet. I was hoping you might have an idea?”

Fjord shrugs apologetically. “Kinda hard to shop for the girl who has everything.”

“Ugh, I know, right? Fuck. I’m terrible at this.” Beau tugs at her hair and gives up with a sigh, slumping back into her seat. “What about you? Who’d you draw for Secret Santa?”

Fjord prods at one of his tusks with his tongue. “Uhm…”

“Oh shit, it’s not me, is it? Sorry dude, I shouldn’t’ve asked—”

“No, it’s not you, don’t worry.” He reaches forward and pats her hand, and sort of ends up holding it in the middle of the table. Normally he’d be on edge being so touchy-feely in public—people have a tendency to _assume_ things just because a boy and a girl are holding hands—but he’s too tired and worn out to care. Sensing this, Beau grips back and gives him an encouraging smile. “I, um. I got Caleb.”

Beau’s eyebrows zip to the top of her forehead and then back down again just as quickly. “Oohh. That’s nice.”

Fjord snorts. “You don’t have to pretend to be normal about it. It’s, um. I know it’s a Thing.”

“Well I know you don’t _want_ it to be a Thing, so. I’m trying not to make it one.” She gives his foot a gentle kick under the table. “Do you need help shopping?”

“No, no… I picked it up today. D’you want to see?”

“Do I!” She lets go of his hand so he can rummage in his backpack, heels smacking the bench in an impatient rhythm.

“It’s kind of a no-brainer,” Fjord warns as he pulls the shopping bag free. “I didn’t get creative with it or anything…”

Beau peels back the thin plastic and looks into the bag. Her eyebrows twitch, trying to ratchet back up even as she fights to keep them stable. A muscle in her cheek twitches. “Fjord, this is… holy shit. Is this _handmade_? How much did it cost?”

“Not… not too much,” Fjord lies, rubbing the back of his neck. “Do you think he’ll like it? I’m afraid it’s kind of, uh. Basic.”

“ _Basic_ ,” Beau scoffs. “Wait, you’re serious? You really think a _handmade leatherbound journal_ with gorgeous gilt-edged paper is _basic_.”

Fjord shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know. Aren’t journals the thing you get someone when you don’t really know what they’ll like?”

“Well, yeah. Difference being, Caleb will _actually_ like this. Hey!” She smacks the table, jolting his mug. “That’s genius, actually. I should get Jessie some art supplies. She was talking about some new kind of marker that she wants to try, I bet if I saw it I could remember what it was.”

Fjord picks up his mug and drains it back in one go. “Well what are we waiting for, then? Let’s go!”

X

Christmas Eve slams into Fjord from behind like a truck going sixty down the freeway. He spends the morning at the docks, catches a quick fifteen minute break to wolf down a granola bar and some 24-hour energy, and then it’s off to the restaurant. It’s swamped, of course—the fleeting hope that people would want to stay home with their families and some home-cooked food whisks out of his head somewhere between the tenth and twenty-fourth plate of the Chef’s Holiday Special.

He checks his phone for a split-second around eight and his heart sinks. The group text is flooded with messages, more than he can reasonably backread, and there’s a few from Beau along the lines of _where are you, bro?_ and _we’ll wait til u get here for presents._ Another comes in as he’s glancing at the screen on a bathroom break at quarter to nine: a picture of Beau flat on her back on the ice, laughing her ass off as Nott bends over her. It’s a bit blurry with dark, the ice a chipped silver swathe taking up most of the frame. Fjord glances at the sender and his stomach drops. It’s from Caleb.

His phone buzzes again with an incoming text. _Wish you were here, Fjord. I hope you get off work soon! ❤ C._

Fjord stuffs his phone back into his pocket and washes his hands thoroughly, staring at his haggard reflection in the mirror. He wasn’t supposed to be working tonight, but someone called in sick and the restaurant manager called him herself, desperate for a fill-in. “Just until ten,” she said—wheedled, really—“and then the rest of the night is yours.”

At this rate, Fjord thinks, it won't matter even if he _does_ magically get off at ten. He doesn’t know if he can keep his eyes open long enough to make it to the rink Jester rented.

He finds time to text back around nine-thirty, stepping out back for a ‘smoke break.’ He isn’t a smoker, but at this rate he’s starting to see why people do it. _Work is crazy_ , he texts Caleb, too exhausted to fathom approaching the group text. _Please don’t wait for me, y’all have fun. xoxo_

The x’s and o’s stare back at him from the screen, accusatory. He hits send anyway, and exhales a long plume of white breath into the frosty air before ducking back inside. Orders are still coming in, plate prep still needs seeing to, tables still need to be bussed or they’ll be in real danger of running out of cutlery. His phone buzzes in his pocket but he’s already got his hands on a lemon for zesting, so he shakes off the prickle of hope and lets the chaotic rhythm of the kitchen sweep him up in its unforgiving grasp.

He’s helping shuffle some rinsed plates into the dishwasher around ten thirty when a hand grabs his shoulder and he spins to see the front hostess standing there, looking slightly harried but still put-together and entirely out of place in the wilderness of the kitchen.

“Boss says you’re out of here,” she says, and gives him a friendly pat on the back. “Get outta here, tough guy. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” he echoes on instinct. He can feel his ironclad shoulders starting to slip already. He glances around, but no one is paying him any mind, too caught up in tasks of their own. With a little sigh of relief, he edges to the back office, punches his timecard, and gets the fuck out.

The cold night air is a welcome slap in the face. He still feels gross from the kitchen, coated with a light layer of grease, so he shrugs his jacket on but leaves it flapping open as he drags his heels to the street corner. He checks his phone. Just a sad face emoji from Caleb, and a few in the group text that he doesn’t bother to read. His heart feels too heavy. They’re probably getting smashed at the rink, and joining in now will just mean being painfully sober and worn-out in a crowd of happy drunks. He loves his friends, but he knows how they get—as melancholy as it is, he’d rather go home and pass out on his couch than sit on the edge of things at the party and bring down the mood.

Suddenly, there are running footsteps behind him. Instinct ratchets up his spine like an electric shock, and he half-turns, one hand going to his pocket where an old jackknife lives—

“Fjord!” calls out a familiar voice, and all the tension runs out of him like water from cheese. “Fjord, wait up!”

In the blue-grey dark of the poorly-lit street, frost on his breath and clinging to his lungs, Fjord watches as Caleb trots up to him, long coat flapping at his knees. His face is rosy-red from the cold and his scarf is dappled with little diamond-clusters of moisture where he’s been breathing into the fabric, and he looks… amazing. Fjord’s heart _thu-thuds_ in his chest and he tries to reel back the grin that wants to leap to his face.

“Caleb, what are you doing here?”

“I came to wait for you!” He comes to a skidding little halt before him on the sidewalk, shoes catching on the crack between one paving block and the next, and Fjord reaches out instinctively to steady him with a hand to his elbow. “ _Danke_. I’ve been lurking out front for twenty minutes or so, I’m glad I caught you. I should’ve known to come ‘round to the back…”

“But why?” Fjord blurts before he can ramble any farther. “I thought you’d still be at the party.”

“I was for a while,” Caleb says with a benevolent shrug. “But I kept falling and the mulled wine was making it worse, and I felt bad, you know, because you had to work on Christmas Eve and there we all were making merry without you… so.” His half-smile pokes a cheery dimple into one cheek, a tempting little mark that Fjord longs to touch. To kiss. He bites his tongue and reins himself in.

“Well, Caleb, I—I sure appreciate you coming. Um. All the way over here. I’m afraid I’m not really the best company right now, I smell like the kitchen and to be honest I was mostly just planning on walking home and passing out. But,” he adds, scratching his head, “I mean, if you wanted to…”

“I’m happy to do nothing at all, if that’s what you want,” Caleb says, blue eyes as earnest as a sunrise. “But at least let’s do nothing together, hmm? Can I walk you back to your place and we can see what we see?”

A little thrown—by Caleb’s arrival, by his cheerfully disheveled state, by the offer—Fjord can do nothing but say, “Yeah, of course. That’s mighty thoughtful of you.”

“I am nothing if not thoughtful.” With a little self-deprecating smile, Caleb holds out his arm, crooked slightly at the elbow as if in invitation. “Shall we?”

In a silence born of awe and fluster, Fjord slips his arm through Caleb’s. It’s spindly but surprisingly strong, and Caleb leans against him easily as they walk to the street corner and turn down it. Fjord’s little brownstone is about a fifteen minute walk from the restaurant, and for the first minute or two Fjord is paralyzed with social anxiety. The air is tight in his lungs and his tongue feels heavy—what can he say that will make Caleb laugh? What witticisms can he conjure that will shear the awkward silence? His brain whirrs and whirrs in a useless cycle like a cog spun loose from its fastenings, and he fancies he can hear Caleb losing interest in the endeavor with every step.

But slowly, slowly, the quiet becomes peaceful rather than painful. _It’s just Caleb_ , he thinks, and that helps. He’s had a crush on him for over a year, now—this is nothing new. It’s just them, two friends—two mates, one might say—walking arm in arm down the street on Christmas Eve…

The tension is about to crank back up in his worried, sleep-deprived head when Caleb gives a gentle gasp and stops walking. Befuddled, Fjord stops just a beat too late, dragging apart from him; but Caleb doesn’t let go of his arm, even steps up to match him, and Fjord mimics the slow tip of Caleb’s head back to face the sky.

“Snow,” Caleb whispers. “Perfect timing.”

“Yeah.” Fjord inhales deeply and lets it out slow, shedding the cobweb-funk of anxiety. Fat white flakes swirl down from the darkness above and land all around them, slow at first and then picking up speed, coating the ground in a thin film of white. He glances at Caleb and smiles. Then laughs.

“What’s so funny?” Caleb demands, nose wrinkling.

“You’ve got a big ol’ flake on your eye,” Fjord informs him.

Caleb blinks. The snowflake in question—more of a cluster of them, really—doesn’t budge. “Did I get it?”

“Here, let me.”

Hardly daring to breathe, Fjord steadies Caleb’s jaw with one hand and flicks the offending snowflake away with the other. Caleb blinks again when it’s done, lashes shushing soft against his cheek, and the crinkle of his smile takes Fjord’s breath away. “Thank you, Fjord,” he says, polite as can be, and doesn’t move to pull away.

Fjord has a sudden moment of vertigo and drops his hand. “No problem,” he says—stammers, really—and nods his head toward the road. “Shall we get on? It’s pretty cold out.”

“It is,” Caleb agrees. He loops their arms together again, easy as anything. “Good thing you have me to keep you warm.”

Fjord’s face grows hot, practically glowing in the stinging cold. Is Caleb… _flirting_? Surely not. Surely… His thoughts stagger like his steps as Caleb’s hand clings a little more firmly to Fjord’s bicep. He tries not to flex it, and fails. Caleb lets out a small puff of frosty white that _might_ be a laugh, and Fjord ducks his chin into his collar as they reach the next block. If only Beau were here. She knows how to recognize shit like this, and has no qualms about giving as good as she gets. Fjord is hopeless in comparison.

As if by magic, his phone buzzes in his pocket. He fishes it out with his free hand, mumbling some nonsense, and feels a burst of warm relief at the sight of Beau’s name on the text. _Did Caleb find you?_

 _Yeah_ , he texts back, painstakingly slow with only his thumb. He refuses to give up Caleb’s arm for this. _Help me i think hes flirtng??_

“How’s the party going?” Caleb asks. Fjord almost drops his phone.

“Oh, I’m not sure. Beau just wanted to know if you’d found me. Um. I’ll ask.” He opens the keyboard again and is starting to awkwardly type out the question when a new text comes in.

_Holy shit !!1!1!!!_

_Wait, really? What’s he saying? Where are you?_

Fjord gnaws on his lip, trying to respond, but each new attempt feels stupid and he ends up erasing all of them. A third message comes while he’s hemming and hawing, and that decides him.

_If ur boy is flirting why are you texting **me?**_

Thought Fjord is still tense and a little bit shaky with nerves, he can’t deny the logic of that. He turns his phone off and puts it back in his pocket decisively. “Party’s fine,” he says. “You’re sure you don’t want to go back?”

“Quite sure. They were pretty drunk when I left, anyway, I don’t think we’re missing much.”

Beau hadn’t _sounded_ particularly drunk in her texts, just overexcited. But Fjord doesn't feel in the mood to argue. Right now he has Caleb all to himself—a rare occurrence—and a quiet, peaceful, snow-laden evening stretching out ahead of them, filled with possibility. His stomach quivers with nerves and excitement.

“You had fun though?” he says, the words coming easily for the first time all night.

“Oh, _ja_ , it was lovely. We, um, opened presents. I hope you don’t mind.”

Fear stabs his gut briefly before sense reasserts itself—his gift for Caleb is still at home, wrapped and waiting by the front door. “I guess it’s pretty obvious who your Secret Santa is, huh.”

“A little,” Caleb says, smiling. “Don’t worry, I don’t mind. I’m glad it’s you. Feels… symmetrical.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, I’m yours.” The dimple in his cheek deepens as Caleb scuffs his heels through the soft dusting of powder-white snow. “I brought it with me; maybe we can exchange before you pass out?”

“I—I’d like that.” Fjord is smiling like a fool and he can’t bring himself to care. _I’m yours_ , Caleb had said. With a little imagination and hand-waving of context, it’s easy to believe he meant it another way.

They turn a corner and trudge through the gathering snow past the little fountain square near Fjord’s apartment. Fjord feels himself slowing despite himself, trying to see whether the pool has frozen over, and Caleb catches him looking. He grins. “Want to give it a go?”

“I’m probably going to make a fool of myself,” Fjord admits, steps slowing. “Would you—would you hold my hand?”

Beneath his solemn expression, Caleb’s eyes sparkle with mirth. “It would be my honor.”

The ice, when they arrive, is lightly covered with a layer of snow, but beneath it is solid enough. Fjord tramps around the outer edge, sticking his foot over occasionally to test his weight. “Must be frozen through,” he says, and jumps a little when Caleb’s hand slips into his. His ears fold tight to his head without being asked, the damn things, and Caleb gives his fingers a squeeze.

“Hold onto me,” he says, so gently that Fjord’s chest feels like it might burst. And they step out onto the ice.

It takes him a minute to find his balance, but as his boots start to skim easily around the frozen pool, steadied by Caleb’s hands in his, Fjord feels weightless for the first time in a long time. The snow is falling thicker, but the lack of wind makes it gentle rather than fearsome. Huge flakes land in Caleb’s hair and stick there like frosty jewels, and melt against his freckled cheeks when he laughs. He skates—or slides, rather—backwards facing Fjord, holding his hands, and every giggle and peal of laughter is a balm to his tired soul.

They move in humble circles around the central figurine, a slow-motion waltz that Fjord thinks he must have known in another life. Either that or Caleb has had training of some sort. He’s a natural lead, heaping encouragement and praise on Fjord when he falters, and though he’s shorter and slimmer it feels like he’s the only thing keeping Fjord from an undignified fall.

“Is this allowed?” Fjord wonders belatedly as they take a final turn.

“Skating on the fountain? I doubt it.” Caleb blows a stray lock of hair out of his eyes and beams at him. “S’fun though, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Easier than real skating, too.”

Like his feet were only waiting for their karmic chance, Fjord feels his boot slip out from under him. He wobbles and flails, grabbing out for support—from Caleb, from the statue, anything to keep upright. To no avail. He overcompensates and his feet shoot out from under him, sending him onto his back with a painful grunt. Caleb, clinging tightly to his hands in a futile effort to spare him, has no option but to follow.

“Ouch,” Fjord wheezes. His elbow is throbbing where it hit the ice, and he can feel a twinge in his back that’s going to be murder tomorrow. And yet.

Caleb is sprawled on top of him like he was dropped out of the sky, limbs every which way and body shaking with laughter. “I’m sorry,” he gasps, dragging some of his weight off of Fjord and onto his knees. He’s sitting in Fjord’s lap, more or less—a precarious position, and yet the warm weight of him on his thighs is definitely not unwanted. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh, are you okay? It’s just that your face—”

“I’m fine,” Fjord says, pushing himself up with a wince. He rubs the offending elbow and looks around, but thankfully the street is still deserted. The only witness to his shame is Caleb. Which is… well. It is what it is. “Are _you_ okay?”

“I’m just lovely, thank you. I had a very nice cushion to spare me.” Caleb grins and reaches out, patting Fjord’s cheek and shoulder. “Did you hit your head? You look a little flushed.”

“It’s cold out,” Fjord murmurs, embarrassed. _Behave_ , he tells his body firmly. _Just this once._

“Yeah, it is. The ice probably isn’t helping.” With economic movements that Fjord envies, Caleb hops to his feet and bends to help Fjord in turn. Fjord feels particularly fragile, in more ways than one—it feels like the fall jarred something loose in him, some strange emotion that he’s having trouble sorting out—but Caleb is as gentle with him as he’s been all night, brushing ice and snow off his back and talking up how many times Beau beefed it at the rink.

“Thanks,” Fjord says when they’ve moved to the safety of the street.

Caleb tilts his head at him curiously. “For what?”

Fjord shrugs, a gesture he hopes will encapsulate everything he doesn’t know how to say. “Making tonight… not completely suck. I guess.”

“Of course, Fjord.” Caleb is smiling at him again, that private just-for-him smile that makes Fjord’s knees feel weak. He reaches for his hand, even though they’re not in danger of falling, and laces their fingers together. “I’m glad I could help.”

Fjord swallows. He feels the weight of something momentous in his chest, like a thousand pent-up butterflies are waiting to be released. He wants to say something. Wants to ask why Caleb came all this way, why he’s stuck close to him as they walked. Why he’s looking at him _like that_ , eyes all soft and framed in winterlight. But he can’t. The words stick in his throat like there something, something…

“Fjord,” Caleb says, breaking the silence with a fond little curl to his lip, “I am a patient man, but if you don’t kiss me right now I might have to do something drastic.”

Fjord’s heart skips a beat. “Drastic?” he echoes, too off-balance to do the cinematic thing. He’s afraid if he tries to sweep Caleb off his feet he’ll just end up on his ass again. With his hand shaking just a little, he reaches out and tucks that errant lock of hair behind Caleb’s ear. “What did you have in mind?”

“Obstinate, stubborn—” Caleb mutters and rocks up, onto his toes, grabs Fjord’s face in both hands, and kisses him.

His lips are hot as a brand against the chill, framed with just a little bit of stubble. Fjord enjoys the scrape against his chin as he kisses back with punch-drunk alacrity, fingers seeking purchase in Caleb’s coat and head craning down to make the reach easier. Like they were made for it, Caleb’s arms snake around his neck and then they’re pressed tight together in the falling snow, lips moving slow and warm as if they’d always known how.

They kiss a little longer, noses shoved to cheeks and tongues licking shyly at chapped lips, and when Fjord finally pulls back he thinks he’s forgotten how to speak. “Um,” he says, eloquently, and grins when Caleb laughs aloud. “Sorry, I—I wasn’t expecting…”

Caleb is still smiling at him. It draws him in like metal to a magnet, and he leans close again, kissing him more gently this time, rubbing their noses back and forth as their lips brush soft as snow. Caleb sighs when it’s over and tips his head back, eyes shut against the flakes that kiss against his skin. “I’ve wanted to do that for ages,” he confesses. His mouth is red and Fjord can feel the answering tingle in his own lips, the slight burn where Caleb’s stubble scraped him. It feels good. Really, really good.

“Same,” Fjord says like an echo. “I…” He takes a deep breath and holds it. There’s so much he wants to say, so many confessions boiling up from where they’ve been slumbering, suppressed, and he’s afraid if he tries they’ll just tumble out of him in a tangle of gibberish.

“I’d quite like some cocoa, I think,” Caleb says suddenly. He reaches up and smudges snow from where it’s started to cluster on Fjord’s eyebrow. “Is that… presumptuous of me, to invite myself…?”

“Not at all!” Fjord leans down and kisses his cheek, his nose, the other cheek—just because they’re rosy and befreckled and inviting, and because he can. “Please. I’d… I’d really like it if you came over. Um. I can make cocoa and we can… exchange our gifts?”

“That sounds lovely.” With utter gravity, Caleb leans up and kisses the corner of his mouth. “And if I forget to say it later because I’m too busy kissing your beautiful face: Merry Christmas, Fjord.”

Fjord’s face creases in something like a smile, but edged with other, sadder things—too many things to name, so instead of thinking about them he buries his face in Caleb’s scarf and breathes him in: mossy damp, frost, a little lick of cologne, the musty-paper smell of old books. _I love you_ , he thinks, and his heart is full with it. “Merry Christmas,” he mumbles instead, pressing the words to the warm, damp skin of Caleb’s neck. The little answering shiver is present enough.

**Author's Note:**

> grey i can't thank you enough for being my friend and making me really understand and appreciate the depths of fjord's character. meeting you has changed my life and i'm excited to see where this next year takes us!
> 
> EDIT: holy SHIT this has art now!!! WHAT THE FUCk. I don't know what I've done to deserve this but I'm eternally grateful. The kiss was illustrated by my dear Q, or [Queen Shadenfreude](https://twitter.com/qschadenfreude/status/1079231395862663174) on twitter and yon. Thank you SO MUCH, I'm all agog!!!


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